When I Grow Up
by winter machine
Summary: Seven years after the Yankees onesie, the only hope for Mark and Addison's sick daughter lives 2,500 miles away and hasn't spoken to them since the affair. How far will they go to help her - and how deeply will their family be shaken along the way?
1. find yourself by traveling out west

**Starting another chaptered story when I have several outstanding - ambitious, or stupid. This is something different, and slightly prompted by someone on Twitter, who wanted Mark and Addison together and semi-suggested the sick child angle. (On another note: was this you? Tell me if so.) We're in the present day here, except that Addison never left Mark in New York and, like the proverbial butterfly beating its wings, there are changes both large and small in their universe as a result. There have been many Addison-with-a-child-in-crisis stories, and I've probably read all of them. If this feels derivative, I apologize - give it a chance and let's see if it doesn't surprise you down the line. Chapter title from Rilo Kiley's _Go Ahead.__  
_**

_When I grow up, I want to be a forester_

_Run through the moss on high heels - that's what I'll do_

_Throwing out a boomerang, waiting for it to come back to me..._

"She'll just need to sit up for takeoff," the flight attendant says carefully, eyeing Annabel, who is curled up in her window seat, head in her mother's lap - maybe sleeping, maybe not.

Her cheek is resting on a fuzzy panda-shaped travel pillow. She loves that thing. Mark's throat tightens. "That's fine," he says shortly, as if it's simple. Maybe they should have flown private. Addison made a brief suggestion of calling her father, but he hadn't wanted to put her - any of them - through that.

"You all set there, honey?" The flight attendant - Caroline, he sees, glancing at her nametag, has turned to gaze at the seat next to Mark now, where their four-year-old son is strapped in with both small hands clutching Mark's iPad, which is safely in family mode. It's early, weak light streaming in through the open windows. First class is barely half full, which suits him just fine.

"Look what I drew." Max lifts the screen to show the flight attendant, pointing with a proud flourish at the colorful scrawl and waiting to be praised. Addison likes to say he's his father's son - the world is full of friends for him and sure enough, Caroline looks charmed.

"Wow, you're a real artist!" The flight attendant smiles at Mark now and Mark smiles back - carefully, hoping his fatherly pride is clear. He can see Addison eyeing him from her aisle seat and his fingers clench on the end of his seatbelt. Slippery nylon doesn't offer much in the way of comfort. Of all the timing in all the world...

_I can't deal with this now. I honestly don't think I can take one more thing, so if you can't-_

"I don't need a carseat anymore!" Max announces now, beaming, still flashing his mouthful of baby teeth at the flight attendant.

"That's right, buddy." Mark focuses on his son's smile, the freckles dusting his nose. Max is still having fun. _And why shouldn't he? _He's too little to understand and too little to leave behind, and he's always loved airplanes. Meanwhile,Mark's own stomach is churning with anticipation and a healthy dose of fear. He's not sure he's let out a full breath since she was diagnosed. Certainly not during the longest cab ride of his life, Annabel sleeping in his lap while planes landed overhead in the pre-dawn grey.

"We're going to take off shortly, sir," Caroline says now, and he nods.

Across the aisle Addison is still smoothing back Annabel's hair, leaning over her. She's speaking softly and Mark can't make out the words.

"Addie," he says quietly and she glances over without lifting her head. He tilts his chin in the direction of Annabel's seat. They don't need many words; they never have.

Addison bends low again, lips pressed to their daughter's dark hair. She helps her sit up and tucks the horseshoe-shaped pillow around her neck. "Comfortable?" he hears her murmur.

He can't make out Annabel's answer.

As if it's just another flight, Addison produces gum from her purse for Annabel and passes Mark a lollipop for Max, who has outgrown the drink-a-bottle-on-takeoff method of keeping his ears clear. He never minded flying though; it was Annabel who used to scream at the change in air pressure. Was that a sign? Something else they'd missed?

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, Max."

"Why are we going, again?"

He puts his hand on his son's head for a minute, ruffling his sandy hair. Then he smoothes it down again. "To see a doctor who's going to help your sister."

"Why can't you and Mommy help her?"

He swallows hard. "She needs a different kind of doctor."

"Why?"

"Buddy, can we just - can we talk about this later? We're going to be taking off any minute. Here." And, feeling like a bad parent, he shucks the plastic wrap off the yellow lollipop - the only kind Max likes - and passes it into the little hand that is somehow already sticky.

Max sucks the candy contemplatively for a minute. Mark tries to remember what it was like to be four, to be distracted by a mouthful of sweetness when everything around him was bitter instead.

Just another flight...when was the last time all four of them flew together? He tries to remember. St. John's, he decides, a few endless months ago. Annabel had been her normal chatterbox self-

_Normal can change._

-carrying her panda pillow, stuffing the seat pocket with chapter books and pleading to sit alone with Max instead of split up, each with one parent. They'd acquiesced after takeoff and let the two of them spend a surprisingly bicker-free hour sharing a juice box and a word find puzzle. Addison had smirked as she slid into the seat beside him. _Look at them - like actual humans, _she'd whispered. He wrapped an arm around her and let himself enjoy the sight of their children entertaining themselves, sitting up in their seats and whispering.

He remembers now being struck by how odd it was to see them existing so surely outside of himself and Addison. From the first moment he saw their fluttering hearts in black and white and felt their swimming kicks against his palm they'd felt so deeply connected that he forgot, sometimes, that they were individuals outside of their parentage. That hour on the plane felt like the beginning of something: they'd grow up, take their own flights, travel without them.

His mind sticks on _grow up_. Carefully, trying not to bother Max, he leans into the aisle and keeps his voice low. "How is she?"

Addison purses her lips slightly. That means _no change,_ which is what he's learned. He cranes his neck to see his daughter, impossibly small in her window seat, leaning back against that silly black and white panda pillow. Addison strokes her cheek. "Don't sleep yet, love. I want you to chew your gum while we're taking off."

They're divided by so much more than the aisle. Max is bouncing restlessly in his seat, robust as ever. That's what children should do, Mark reminds himself for the umpteenth time. Not slump tired in a leather seat far too big for them.

_Why her?_

_No one can answer that._

For the hundredth time he questions whether they are doing the right thing.

_You're really going to call him?_

_He's the best._

"Have I been there before? Daddy?"

Mark smiles at his son, who's still in full chatty mode. "Nope."

"Have you?"

"No, I haven't."

"But Mommy has?"

"Yeah. A long time ago." He can't resist ruffling his son's hair one more time, reminding himself that he's real. It was so long ago, but it feels like yesterday.

_Richard called. He needs me for a case._

_That's all you're going to say? It's for a case?_

_Mark, you have nothing to worry about. It's a few days, a week at most._

_I have everything to worry about! _

She took his hand then, placed it on the spot that would later become Annabel. _We'll be back, Mark. We're coming back. I have no reason to stay._

He'd vowed then, once she'd flown back and he had both of them in her arms - he swore the bump was bigger, closer to real by the time she landed - he'd never go to Seattle.

But if anything would break his promise to himself, of course it would be his daughter. She was sleeping that day, when Addison turned red-rimmed eyes to him. "I'm calling him," she'd said simply.

"Addison-"

"Please." Her voice was congested. "I can't argue about this. It's been seven years, Mark, I-"

'Of course," was all he'd said then. "Of course you should call him."

Mark wasn't there when she called but she walked back into the room with purpose and fresh tear tracks on her cheeks. He folded her in his arms and they watched their daughter sleep.

Annabel's almost seven. He swallows hard on the word _almost,_ weightier than it should be when discussing his child. _Almost_ seven. And they _almost_ went forever without having to speak to him.

He acceded, of course. All he wants is for his daughter to be all right. All he wants is for his family to stay intact. All he wants is nothing less than everything. If that means flying across the country to face his former best friend - after all these years, after all that's past - then that's what they'll do. He's faintly nauseated at the thought of throwing himself on his mercy. _I'm sorry I fucked you over. I'm sorry you had to see us like that. I'm sorry you never answered my calls or listened to my apologies and most of all I'm sorry I have to ask you now to please, please help us. _

Her words the last time they discussed Seattle: _You have nothing to worry about._ But everything is different now.

He watches Addison's other hand tighten on the armrest. Almost unconsciously, his mimics. "Here we go," he says, almost to himself, but his son's indrawn breath of anticipation - Max has always loved taxiing down the runway - serves as the response. Mark's fingers clench and unclench as the jet picks up speed. He glances across the aisle; Addison is turned in her seat toward Annabel. Silently he lets his hand drift toward her. There's no reason she should see him and maybe she doesn't, but while she doesn't turn around her own hand loosens on the padded armrest and travels the rest of the space between them. Her fingertips brush his lightly as the plane lifts into the air.

"We're off!" Max cries happily.

_We sure are. _

There's no going back now. Weightless, pinned against his seat and still terrified, Mark holds on to his wife's hand and braces for what's coming next.


	2. practiced are my sins

**Chapter title from Pearl Jam, "Just Breathe." Chapters will alternate from Mark's POV to Addison's. The flashbacks I adore will be in italics. Let me know if you're confused and I'll revisit my catch-as-catch-can strategy. Thanks for reading.**

_practiced are my sins, never gonna let me win_

She's thinking about medicine when the seatbelt sign dings back on.

Medicine, and Mark - who's facing away from her, reading with Max - and Annabel, who's dozing against her. And she's absently stroking her daughter's silky dark hair, arranging and rearranging the waves on the shoulder of her green sweater. The stale cabin air smells faintly of spiced nuts and the untouched glass of apple juice she'd ordered for Annabel. What she's thinking about is how perfect Annabel looks, sleeping like this. Her eyes are closed, dark lashes fluttering on pale cheeks, breaths deep and even. Lots of kids sleep on planes. Normal kids-

_Normal is relative. _

Addison muses about how different her field is from Mark's, in this particular way. Her husband is a plastic surgeon: it's rare that the defect he's brought in to fix is anything but apparent from the outside. Visible disfigurements. Pain you can see. But Addison has built her career around pregnant woman - before and after they give birth. There's little to tell externally from the faint swell of a belly. The fetus inside, growing into a baby - it could be perfect. It could already be gone. She's seen mothers glowing with health whose hearts she had to break when a routine ultrasound revealed everything was the opposite of fine. This, she decides, makes it harder for Mark. Max's skinned knee, the wrist Annabel sprained in soccer last year - visible injuries can be seen, dealt with. They can watch these small imperfections on their otherwise unmarred children melt back into perfection as they heal. But Annabel, whose soft sleepy breaths are painfully reminiscent of the sounds she made as a baby - she looks fine. She _was _fine.

It reminds her of Richard, her old mentor, who used to say that every patient's crisis could be divided into the before, and the after. By the time they get to the hospital, they're already in the after. And every patient's story, he would say, begins the same way. _He was fine,_ the patient's family will say. Addison studiously tried to avoid this when she spoke to Richard the night before, carefully describing her daughter's condition with a doctor's distance. It's taking everything she has to keep the weeping mother at bay, to remain clinically detached. The warm, light weight of her daughter against her - her silky hair, the soft cheeks she'd stroke when she nursed - the impossibly trusting gaze. _This isn't supposed to happen. _

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She's a doctor and she knows the danger of magical thinking, but surgeons are a superstitious bunch. Didn't she bring her own lucky scrub cap with her on this trip, folded up in her bag?

It's not like she hadn't felt guilty, sometimes, over the years. Especially at the beginning. The adulterous bitch and the manwhore, betraying the perfect third branch of their tree. Weren't they supposed to pay for what they'd done - pay with more than losing Derek (which isn't to say that hadn't hurt)? Derek was the one who left, his practice and his house and his life. He had to rebuild across the country while they got to stay in the city they loved, the practices they'd developed. With each other. Guilt would gnaw at her in quiet moment. A night of passion, of betrayal, wasn't supposed to result in a perfect baby girl. Or, two years later, a son. Derek was the one who wanted children, the one who came from a loving home, a big family. Between the benign neglect of Addison's childhood and the actual neglect of Mark's, how were they the ones who ended up raising two precious children in a toy-strewn duplex? She worried she didn't deserve any of it.

It wasn't perfect, of course, because nothing is perfect. There's the thing she's promised herself she won't think about until Annabel gets better. But two kids, two careers, the white picket fence at the house in Connecticut. Annabel was skating in Central Park last weekend in the little cherry-red fleece she loved. Addison was braiding her hair, reminding her to wipe down her blades. There were cartwheels in the living room, wobbly lego structures in the den and dog-eared paperbacks on any available flat surface. Annabel liked _Beezus and Ramona; _last month she asked them _can I have a little sister? _Mark grinned at Addison before answering. _I think our family's already done, kiddo. _

Addison was paged to the ER last Saturday and Mark was at a birthday party with Max. The nanny had taken Annabel to her skating lesson. Addison went back over this in her mind, again and again, in that hospital room. What if she had gone? Would she have noticed something different?

_No,_ that was what Richard had said on the phone last night. _Don't torture yourself. _Now Addison takes a moment to remember Richard fondly. She's pleased she's going to see him again - if anything about this trip can be pleasing. He was gruffly tender on the phone, asking questions, concerned for her well-being. And he was kind to her the last time she went to Seattle. Welcoming.

She doesn't really want to think about the last time. It was a blur of awkwardness and discomfort, a last desperate attempt to make everything okay and the final blow of realizing nothing would ever be okay again. Not the way it was.

_"I'm so sorry," she whispers as he hands her the signed divorce papers in the reflected glare of the hospital's lights. "Maybe not soon, but someday maybe you can forgive me?"_

_He stares right past her, eyes cool as ice. "Not likely."_

_But he keeps standing there and she swallows hard, unlikely hope stinging the backs of her eyes. Maybe he'll change his mind. Maybe he'll talk to her. She's carrying Mark's child, her finger bears the faint marks of Derek's rings, and she's still jet-lagged from the cross-country flight. Nothing feels real. His mouth twitches and the hand holding the divorce papers shakes. _

_"Well?" he demands when she says nothing. "Aren't you going to sign them?"_

_She blanches. "Right now?" She'd been thinking more like her hotel room, the half a glass of wine she's been allowing herself, a hot bath. Somewhere she can cry without hurting either Derek or Mark, for once. Derek's expression turns faintly amused, his voice dripping with disdain. _

_"You don't seriously expect me to trust you to do this right, do you?" He lingers on the word _trust_. She swallows hard, etches four names in triplicate with a shaking hand, pausing only once to wipe tears from her eyes. No sooner has the last hyphen-Shepherd appeared on the page than he whisks the papers out of her hand, flipping through the packet with exaggerated care. Apparently satisfied, he hands the papers back to her. _

_"Have your lawyer send me a copy." And with that he turns around and walks out of her life as surely as he'd strolled into it sixteen years earlier._

The memory evaporates as quickly as it came, leaving her chilled. Almost unconsciously she pulls Annabel closer to her side, twisting a lock of her hair around a finger. Under that shiny cap of dark waves, under the surface where everything looks perfect, she sees the eerie image of the mass that threatens her daughter's life.

_Surgery isn't an option based on the location in the brain, Doctor. _

_It has to be an option. _

_Now,we can look at ways to prolong-_

_I'm calling him,_ she'd said, turned and walked away: from Mark, his fingers grazing her jacket as she left, from Dr. Ooisterhuis, who'd squeezed them into his schedule immediately out of professional courtesy, who was legendary on the east coast, and from Annabel, curled small and tired in the hospital bed. She'd hunched exhausted and fearful against the cold plaster wall and fumbled with her cell phone. _Information, information,_ but she couldn't remember how to dial anything. She was trying desperately to regulate her breathing when Mark's bigger, warmer fingers closed over hers. _You're really going to call him? _All she could do was whisper: _he's the best_ and then melt with relief when Mark nodded and went back into the hospital room.

Dr. Ooisterhuis had been less than enthusiastic._ Shepherd is gifted, of course, but it's simply not operable. We're better off starting her on a course of treatment as soon as possible. I'll pull a team together here. _ Addison had ignored him, pocketing her phone and brushing angrily at the tears on her cheeks. She vowed then not to cry anymore and steeled herself for what was to come. This was her daughter, her baby. _Prolong_ was not acceptable, so she called the man whose life she'd ruined seven years ago and begged him to do what he did best. To be a god.

Let people think she was crazy for bundling her sick daughter up and flying her three thousand miles across the country. She'd fly further, be more impetuous, do anything to fix this. She only has to glance across the aisle to know Mark feels the same way. They are quite a bit alike, really. It is, she often thinks, both the strongest and weakest point in their marriage.

The captain announces that landing is imminent, interrupting her thoughts, and she listens to his cheerful Southern accent and tries to swallow the dread in her stomach. It seems bizarre to check her seat belt and Annabel's like it's an ordinary flight, ease their seat backs upright, fold up their tray tables. The overly perky flight attendant stops by again to check on them, lingering over Max's seat belt.

Annabel wakes up cranky, flinching away from Addison's hands and rubbing her eyes.

"Hey." Addison leans over her, brushing her lips against her forehead. "We're about to land. I know you're sleepy." She swallows the question she used to ask them every morning: _did you have sweet dreams? _Annabel would pause dramatically, one hand fisting a cereal spoon, sometimes sporting a milk mustache, and regale the three of them with mostly-fantastic stories. Max was starting to do it too now. He loved doing what she did. Playing with her toys, flipping through her chapter books, demanding or eschewing the same foods.

Annabel stirs under her hands, then turns her face to the window and closes her eyes again.

It's too grey to make out much of Seattle from the sky. What she can see is more grey: the wispy clouds, the faint impression of buildings beneath them, and - more worryingly, now - the pallor of her daughter's skin.

She glances across the aisle. Her husband and son are twisted away from her with identical postures, two sandy heads bent toward the window watching their descent. If she knows Mark - and she's pretty sure at this point she really does, despite everything that happened before they left New York - then he's counting down the miles for Max, who'll be listening raptly.

Addison buries her face in her daughter's sweet-smelling hair. "Time to wake up, Bel," she murmurs.

Her dark lashes flutter on pale cheeks. "Are we here?"

"Almost." _Wherever "here" is._

The wheels touch down with a jolt and the sudden flash of panic at having to get off the plane and face what's waiting for them. In the cabin, at least, the four of them were together. They could still pretend everything was fine. They leave the plane first, Annabel consenting to be carried while Addison braces herself for complaints when two uniformed men meet them at the cabin door with a large double stroller.

Addison doesn't want to remind Annabel that it's this or a wheelchair, but her daughter is surprisingly compliant. "I want to walk," Max protests briefly, but at a look from Mark, who Addison privately suspects has bribed him, Max settles into the stroller front of his sister with no further comment.

The boxy medical transport vehicle isn't quite an ambulance, and for that she's grateful. The seats are wide and comfortable; Annabel settles on Mark's lap while Addison pulls Max into her side, nestling him in the crook of her arm. This rhythm, swapping children and laps, this familiar ratio of people she loves - everything feels terribly transient right now and she doesn't realize how closely she's clasped her son against her until he wriggles, protesting. "Too tight, Mommy!" She loosens her grip. "Sorry, sweetheart." She smoothes down his sandy hair. They'd debated bringing him to Seattle but suffice it to say they couldn't bear splitting up the family before the flight. Even if -

"Mommy?"

"Yeah, Max."

"Are we there yet?"

She half-smiles. Now that's normal. "It's going to be a little longer, honey. Why don't you try to close your eyes-"

"I'm not tired."

She waits for the inevitable - Annabel echoing _me neither_ as the two of them always do whenever sleeping or bedtime comes up. A second later a flush rises in her cheeks as she remembers. Annabel is silent, dozing against her father.

"Okay. We'll just have quiet time then." She lifts Max onto her lap so he can see out the window, lets him murmur and giggle about cars and scenery as they drive. Bringing him along was supposed to keep them together. That's a lot of pressure for a four-year-old and familiar feelings of guilt wash over her. That same blue-grey color hangs outside and inside the car, cool afternoon light. Misty, like she remembers. They drive steadily and there are no sirens but the feeling of urgency within the vehicle turns her stomach anyway. They pull into the parking lot of the hospital she's tried to forget. A team flocks to Mark's side of the vehicle, helping him load Annabel onto a gurney. Max reaches for his father and Mark picks him up. Addison, alone on her side, slides open the door and steps out into the chill.

And is confronted with a moment she's dreaded since she placed the call.

He's standing there waiting for them, in a navy hospital-issued parka. Every visible inch of him is familiar and different all at once. His brow crinkles when the door opens and for a long moment she just stares at him. Richard interrupts her gaze, walking between them and pulling her into his arms. "I'm so sorry, Addie, but we're going to do everything we can." She mumbles a thank-you, her face buried in the fleecy collar of his parka. He releases her, turns and introduces himself to Mark, who is still holding Max and keeping watch over the team who has descended on Annabel.

Addison and Derek are left facing each other. Addison opens her mouth, not sure what will come out, but when the words flow the painful truth of Richard's long-ago advice hits her. Bedside vows notwithstanding, she's just another parent of just another patient now. "She was fine," she whispers. The words tumble faster. "She was skating last week, doing cartwheels, we went to dinner and-"

There it is. Inevitable proof that they're in the _after._ Richard rests his hand on her shoulder, interrupting the stream of words. "We'll get her admitted, and Derek is going to examine-"

Richard's words sound very far away. She takes a deep breath, feels misty air on her cheeks. It's so damp here. She turns to her ex-husband, lifting her eyes carefully as though they might burn, and asks the question that terrifies her. "Do you think you can..." She trails off.

He cocks his head slightly, such a familiar gesture after all these years, eyes pale and sad. "Addison-"

Mark's hand closes on her shoulder then and whatever Derek was going to say is left unsaid. Her husband leans toward her, balancing Max in his arms. "They're taking her in," he says quietly, close to her ear, and she nods, curling into him automatically as they turn to the gurney that holds their daughter.

She bends over Annabel, who looks groggy but awake. "Everything's going to be fine, sweetheart. Daddy and I are right here with you."

Mark hoists Max higher and takes one of Annabel's hands with his free one. Addison, on the other side of the gurney, grips her daughter's small fingers and they proceed slowly through the sliding glass doors of the hospital in a tight group of four. Not sure why she does it, Addison glances over her shoulder, briefly, as they cross the threshold. Derek is still standing by the open doors of the medical transport vehicle, hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, watching them.


End file.
